


Aftermath

by 084butnotlost



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Family, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24623479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/084butnotlost/pseuds/084butnotlost
Summary: Buffy is mortally wounded following a fight with a new nest in Cleveland. As her family of friends try to save her life, she starts to lose her grip on reality. As the past bleeds into her present, she finds an anchor in Faith.Post-Chosen except Tara, Anya and Spike are alive. Faith and Buffy have an established relationship.
Relationships: Faith Lehane/Buffy Summers, Tara Maclay/Willow Rosenberg, Xander Harris/Anya Jenkins
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	1. Red

Black. 

A flicker of light. Distant sounds. 

Red. Black again. 

Someone was speaking. No, not speaking. Their voice was wet. 

Crying? Why were they crying? 

Blood. She could smell blood. And earth. Images flashed into her mind unbidden 

-black and white and LOUD. 

_It was cramped, blackness was surrounding her, it was inside her, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t work out which way was up or down, she was drifting she was- she was-. She was all alone. They had left her here. The lid was tight, pressed up against her nose, she reached out wide and clawed at satin, hands scrabbling for purchase as it slipped away from her. Heart hammering, sweat stuck as it trickled down her back. Blood pounded in her temples and she struck upward, pushing, and forcing as splinters bit into her palms. The wood creaked and earth sprinkled onto her hair. Her movements increased in frenzy, skin tearing from her fingers as she punched and reached and clawed and **pushed**. _

__

__

_The dirt was pouring down now, thick it crawled into her mouth, her eyes- she choked and coughed and she couldn’t breathe, she needed to get out, she was alone, she spat and thrashed and she was forgotten, she coughed, her lungs were burning and needed to **get out** she needed to she- she needed to- to-_

Flash. Breathe.

She inhaled sharply, air forcing its way in like gravel, letting out a high pitched whine. Her throat hurt, she realised distantly. The memory had gone just as quickly as it started, snapping back from her mind and leaving her in the black. The crying sounded closer but she couldn’t make out the words, her brow furrowed in concentration as-

Someone was stroking her cheek. Slow and soft, it felt familiar. How long had that been happening? The movement dragged her closer to consciousness and her senses started to tune in dimly. There was a faint ringing in her ears and a light breeze flowed through her hair. Was she moving? She could feel something warm under her head and it moved slightly, her cheek brushing against cloth. A warm hand cradled her jaw.

Her head was in someone’s lap. And they were...moving. No - everything was moving. The purr of an engine beneath her shook her body lightly, she could just start to feel the vibrations against her spine. She tried to move but found her body unwilling to respond.

She was cold. And heavy.

Her head felt thick and it was tempting to just let go. Give in to sleep until the world made sense again. Her bones ached with tiredness now she thought about it. Had she been patrolling? She hadn’t been this exhausted since she died. But something nagged at her fogged brain, something important. She was forgetting something. Her slayer senses were gnawing at her nerves, refusing to let her relax until she-

She opened her eyes and met the hazel ones above her.

Her vision was blurry and dark at the periphery, but she would recognise those eyes anywhere. Faith’s anxious grimace smoothed out into a relieved half smile as she met the blonde’s gaze. Her hand rested on Buffy’s cheek as she spoke emphatically, quirking her eyebrow like she always does when she says something lewd.

Buffy frowned and strained, unable to hear the other slayer.

Faith leaned in and repeated what she had said. She tapped Buffy’s cheek gently, eyes shifting in suspicion. Her brow furrowed with confusion, sucking her cheeks in she called B’s name to no response. She turned to speak to someone outside of Buffy’s vision, her head whipping around with aggression, gesturing forcefully. Buffy was lost in the motion of her hair, eyes rolling towards her of their own accord. Faith looked angry. She turned back to the girl in her arms and grimaced, chewing on the edge of her lip. Reaching across she stroked her face one more, but when her hand came away it was wet.

Oh. She hadn’t realised she was crying. She couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t feel much of anything. Faith was trying to talk to her again, trying to catch her eye. Buffy squinted and tried to read Faith’s lips. She could make out every few words with extreme effort.

“…B? B can you ….me? I’m here… Dawn is ….. -by-five…You’re …. to be fine, Red and …. are ….. fix you …. G-Man is ….. need to …. awake…You … with me okay? Stay …..”

The black ate away at the edges of her vision, she felt lightheaded. It felt like falling. Faith was leaning over her, much closer now. Her curls were trailing on Buffy’s cheek. Had she been that close before? She tasted smoke on her lips from Faith’s cigarette kiss and then she-

* * *

She was on the sofa. She could feel the fabric under her cheek. She couldn’t remember how she got here. Someone was holding her right hand, rubbing her knuckles gently. It was nice. No one was ever gentle with her.

There was a tugging in her abdomen. And now a pressure on her left shoulder. No, not a pressure. A tearing sensation. She was ripping. Why was she ripping? There was a gurgling noise. Her chest felt hot. That wasn’t so gentle. 

Her head was swimming. She thinks she might be sick she-

“…think she’s waking up. Buffy? Buffy can you hear me?”

“-Xander keep the pressure on, she’s losing too much-“

Someone was touching her forehead. She felt hot and cold all at once. Her hands were all tingly. Were they normally tingly? 

“Buffy sweetie we’re here, you need to stay calm and-’”

“…dead? She’s not dead again right? Will, you need to do something she’s-”

“This is my fault, I didn’t prepare her enough. I should have-”

“I can’t focus with you yelling at me, get me the compendium from upstairs, and more candles from the-”

The voices were all blending into each other, she couldn’t keep track. The dizzy feeling was getting worse.

“Don’t die again Buffy, you seem to make a habit of it. Last time Xander wouldn’t stop crying, and everyone was too depressed to have a good retail attitude at the store and-“

“Don’t leave me, not again. You promised. You promised!”

“Right I’ve had enough of that. Love you need to shut up and give the birds some space to work, or I swear I’ll-“

She’d heard that voice before, she was sure of it. Everything felt too close and too far away at the same time. Her palms were sweating, instinct screaming at her to get out.

“Quit it, all of you. Give B some space, you’re crowding her alright? My slayer senses are going all freaky listening to you yammering, which means hers will be too. Red, the lights please?”

All at once the wall of voices gave way to more reserved background murmuring, and Buffy breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Without the clamour for distraction, the fire in her chest was getting hotter and she winced. A familiar hand traced her jaw, and with great effort Buffy’s eyelids fluttered open.

A sweaty but clear image of Faith came into view, she was knelt next to her on the floor. The lights were thankfully low but she dimly recognised her own living room. Another hand entered her vision from the left and wiped her brow. It was smaller, trembling with chipped sparkly nail polish and …blood? Dawn? 

“Hey B. You back with us?” The other slayer asked, in the softest voice Buffy had ever heard her use. 

Still dizzy, Buffy prised open her cracked lips to groan out a reply “F-faith? What hap-“

Red. 

It sprayed across Faith’s cheek and Buffy watched it in apparent slow motion. Red? Was that ...? Where did it com-? Oh. Well she may have dropped her health class, but even she knew that’s not good.

Time stood still for a moment. Faith’s mouth was opened in shock. The blood had flecked across her burgundy lipstick, mixing to give her a macabre gloss. Dawnie let out a whimper. 

Then there was a flurry of activity: frantic instructions were yelled as strong unseen hands wrapped around her torso and lifted her on to her side, something firm was pushing on her abdomen again. Faith was behind her, holding her head up as it lolled forwards. Dawn appeared in front of her, holding a bowl under her chin. Her eyes were wide with fear, sooty tear tracks stained her cheeks. Had there been a fire?

“We’re here Buff, just let it out.”

She coughed and retched and felt something **pull**. Softer hands rubbed her back as she struggled weakly, she couldn’t get enough air in. Will was chanting somewhere out of view, she could hear clinking of various glasses and the stench of sulphur hung in the air. Another hand mopped sweat from her brow as she strained, her mouth was full of copper and it hurt.

“We’ve got you love. Move it closer to her face, nibblet”.

Blood splattered noisily into the bowl as she fought to breathe, spots appearing in front of her eyes. Her chest was so tight, why was it so tight? Red stained her chin as she spluttered, wet hacking wheezes contorting her limp body as the strong hands held her up. Her abdomen was on fire. She felt like she was being ripped in half.

“It’s okay B, you’re okay. Get it all out, you’re doing good. That’s my girl”.

This was never going to end, everything hurt. God why did it hurt so much? Her breathing hitched and her lungs were full and thick and she couldn’t breathe, she was sinking, she was-

_Drowning. The water was engulfing her, she couldn’t see. Everything was going dark. Inside her mind she was thrashing, screaming, but her body wouldn’t obey her. Everything was numb. The water was pouring down her throat, forcing its way into her chest. She could feel it pushing against her organs to make space, her chest was a vice. She couldn’t open her eyes but she didn’t know if she wanted to. The Master was long gone, she was left here all alone. The roaring in her ears was getting louder. She was cold. Her dress was ruined. She was all alone. She was going to-_

Flash. 

* * *

Air entered her lungs in a whoosh. 

She gasped it in as the memory faded and she came back to herself. She had been moved again, she realised. The world was more upright now. She was leaning against something, something soft - no, someone. Blearily, she looked to her left. She was lying on Faith’s chest, her head propped up on her lover’s shoulder, an oxygen mask obscuring her view. Will must have upgraded the first aid kit again. She feels nauseous, but tracked her blurry gaze down to assess the damage.

A man’s hands covered in gauze were tight against her left shoulder, the bandages marred with crimson. They were big and bold and shaking. Xander? A tearful Dawnie was holding her hand, gripping her fingers tight like she might disappear. Next to her sister, the silver hilt of a sword stands to attention. Emerging from her abdomen, it seemed oddly proud. Like the mast of a ship. Tall and sharp and definitely the source of the ripping sensation. Several hands are pressed around the blade, slipping and pushing, trying to keep her guts where they seemed determined to spill out from. Red was seeping steadily over the cushions and onto the floor, staining the carpet at an alarming pace. Mom would have killed me, she thought absently. Maybe it was the shock, but she felt an odd desire to laugh. Eyes watering, she looked beyond the sword to the end of the couch, where her leg was bent at an impossible angle. She’s pretty sure it wasn’t facing that way before. As if sensing her gaze, she watched as the limb was lifted up before her. She met Spike’s grimace, just as he snapped the joint back into alignment.

A sickening crunch. Pain. White hot, it burned up her leg like a gun shot. She let out a short scream. It sounded nasal and foreign in the mask. Her body contorted automatically and the sword shifted.

Blood frothed from the wound anew and she let out a guttural moan. Strong hands appeared to hold her still on all sides, their knuckles white with the effort as she writhed.

Softer hands stroked her forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat. Faith pressed her lips to Buffy’s cheek, her tattooed arm pressing her head against her neck firmly but gently. She whispered words of encouragement as she waited for B to calm down. 

“You’re okay, I’m here, I’m here B. Just breathe, it’s over”. 

Xander’s face swam into view overhead as she tried to hold still, every movement caused more agony. He looked stricken, like he’d seen a ghost. Was that a black eye? She thinks she can hear Spike crying, but that can’t be right. Dawnie tightens her grip on her hand again.

Willow approaches her, the smell of sage hits Buffy’s senses before she can focus on the witch. Tara is by her side, and she carefully reaches over to lift the oxygen mask off, her eyes full of kindness and sadness in equal measure. She looks so serious, Buffy thinks, as Faith brushes her sticky hair back. Willow daubs a thick green paste on the blonde’s forehead, then turns and does the same for the other slayer. 

“It n-needs to b-be skin on skin...uh Faith,” Tara stammers. She offers Faith a small apologetic smile. It’s nice that they’re getting along.

“Oh right, should’ve known the scissor sisters would want my kit off sooner or later. Okay Xandman little help?” Her Boston drawl sounds thicker than normal, like the words are stuck in her throat. She’s worried, Buffy thinks absently. 

Buffy wants to reassure her but her hands feel cold and actually everything is getting a little farther away again. She doesn’t think she has the energy to speak right now. It’s probably not important. Faith knows that she-. 

She knows. 

The strong hands from before turn her on her side briefly, everything lurching in her vision and stomach, and then she’s placed down again. Fighting the dizziness this incurred, she finds Anya snipping away the tattered remains of her shirt. For once she is silent, lips pressed in a firm line. A slight tremble is in the ex-demon’s hands as she lifts the cloth away, leaving Buffy in just her sports bra and bodily fluids. Oh and the sword. That’s still in her.

Faith’s flesh beneath her own is warm and comforting, taking away her chill. She drifts…

A cup is being pressed against her split lips. Faith is lifting her chin, pressing open mouthed kisses to her jaw. It’s nice, she tries to remember what’s going on. There was a sword, and Will was doing a spell? Her thoughts feel soupy, she can’t grasp onto any to them. It’s cold. She feels hot breath against her ear as Faith whispers assurances. 

“It’s for the pain. Red made it real special for ya. Come on B”. Her voice cracks on the last word. 

Eyes still closed, Buffy opens her mouth obediently and gags as the thick liquid is poured down her throat. She tries to spit -what she is certain is poison- out, but firm hands clamp down on her jaw, covering her mouth and nose. She jerks and strains, turning near purple with the effort, then finally swallows. Slumping down again, her head cuddled once more into Faith’s neck. She can hear Dawn crying and then …

she  
can’t  
hear  
anything  
at all.


	2. Slow

She’s warm. Everything feels soft, like the world isn’t quite in focus. The weight of a duvet presses gently down on her – she must be in a bed. She can feel Faith pressed up against her back, strong and familiar, the tickle of her hair on her cheek. She smells like cinnamon and smoke and blood. 

It’s quiet. 

The hushed, fragile kind that means it must be very late. Or very early. Slayer time tends to mess with your perception of day and night.

She opens her eyes to find the world on its side. She’s in her room, and apparently so is everyone else. Bathed in the light blue hues of early morning, she’s surrounded by a slumbering vigil. Tara and Willow are closest to the bed, entwined on a nest of cushions and spell books. They’re holding hands, Tara tucked into Willow’s side like they were made to fit together. Behind them she can make out Giles, prone in an armchair that must have been brought from downstairs. His glasses are comically askew, the cleaning cloth he so often worries having fallen from his outstretched hand onto Anya’s face below him. She’s sleeping ramrod straight, arms pinned to her sides in almost military fashion. Rumbling snores give away Xander’s location in the corner – hunched on his side, drooling and sporting a new shiner and fat lip. Spike is sat next to the door, a forgotten cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. His knuckles are split.

She blinks slowly.

_Caleb stares back at her. His eyes are completely black, tar leaking over his cheeks. He grins, a flash of white amid the darkness. The bodies of the potentials lie all around her, soaked in the blood and wine. He wraps his fist around her throat, and leans in, so close his forehead presses against hers. His breath is sour and he spits on her with every word._

_“I do believe we’re overdue for a chat, little lady. You’re dirty. Impure,” He snarls._

_He tightens his grip and she kicks her legs weakly, scrabbling for purchase. He laughs and it echoes, suddenly deafening. The sound crashing all around her, reverberating off the walls of the cellar._

_“The so-called ‘Chosen One’. Meant to defeat evil, to carry out the righteous notion of good.”_

_He slams her back down onto the ground by her throat, crushing her against the cobbles. Her breath leaves her in one deep exhale. Wrenching her head to one side, he digs his fingernails into her cheek so hard she can feel it rip._

_“Look.” He commands. “I said **look at her bitch** ”. He claws open her eyelids, his whole body shuddering with anger as he uses his weight to grind her into the floor. _

_Jenny Calendar’s unseeing eyes look through her. Her neck is crooked, mouth submerged in a puddle of claret. Her arm is stretched out in front of her, a rose crumpled in her grasp. Buffy can hear screaming, animalistic and raw and someone’s-_

-fingers are running through her hair. Snagging on a few errant strands, then resuming their slow and careful movements. Dawn is peering at her, worry clear on her too pale face. 

“Buffy?”

She’s propped up on her pillows, it’s later than before. Her room is empty except for her sister and a still slumbering Giles in the chair. She can hear muted clattering downstairs from the kitchen, the voices softer than the normal raucous breakfast she’s used to. The sheets are cool – Faith must have left a while ago. She can still smell her shampoo.

Dawn is trying to catch her eye, worrying her lip between her teeth. Buffy is struck suddenly by how much older she looks. It’s only been a few months since the literal fall of Sunnydale, but in that time Dawn looks like she’s grown into a woman. Or maybe she’d matured before that, and Buffy had been too busy trying to keep it together – for her, for the potentials, for everyone – to notice. She wonders if she’ll ever feel like a good older sister.

Buffy’s mind is fumbling sluggishly with her thoughts, trying to sort them into a comprehensible order. She feels less fogged than before, but still disoriented and a little seasick – drugged? She’s in her bedroom, she had been out on patrol investigating that new nest on the East side. There was a fight – a sword and then nothing. Flashes of the rescue effort come to her in a jumble: Giles’ face losing all its colour, Willow and Tara enshrouding her in violet light that seemed to hum beneath her skin, Xander’s shaking hands lifting her up, Faith cradling her. The fear in her girlfriend’s eyes, filled with unshed tears and that raw vulnerability she always hid from the others. It was the same look in her eyes as the day Buffy had stabbed her on that rooftop, the same look as when Faith had stabbed Allan Finch. Like the world had fallen out from under her.

“Buffy, are you in pain?” Dawn’s voice wobbles slightly.

She could answer that question in so many ways but none of them would matter. She could tell her sister how there must be an anvil on her chest, that each breath feels tighter than the last. That her arm is numb and her leg is on fire. That she can feel the bones creaking, her flesh knitting itself back together, as her slayer healing forces her battered limbs to do days of healing in hours. That the point where the sword pierced her abdomen feels like ice. And that the sickening chill feels the same as when she’d leapt through the portal and been impaled on that rusted rebar. That she’s not sure if she’s actually awake and she doesn’t know if she wants to be.

“I’ve had worse”. Not exactly the truth and not a lie either. She’d gotten good at these half-truths, being a leader.

Dawn looked for a fleeting moment exasperated, but this quickly dissolved into unrestrained relief. She threw her arms around her sister’s neck enthusiastically, then at Buffy’s sharp inhale, loosened her grip. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she sat back and fixed Buffy with her most stern expression.

“Never do that again. You promised you weren’t going to leave again”.

“You can’t expect me to not patrol”. 

Dawn glared.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know that”.

“Yeah…I know what you meant. I wasn’t trying to Dawnie, I promise.” That was a whole truth. 

These past few months have been difficult – the battle with the First was over, but evil still existed. Sunnydale was gone sure but Cleveland had its very own shiny hellmouth for her to sort out, not to mention the thousands of baby slayers for her to find and “inspire” – whatever that meant. But amongst all the endless fighting, and organising, and leading; she found Faith. Literally and figuratively, she supposed. The world felt a little lighter when shouldered by the Chosen Two. 

As if summoned by thought alone, the other slayer ducked her head around the door. Dressed in her staple black tank and pink sleep shorts (Buffy’s), bearing two steaming mugs. She had a pinched, tense expression which melted into obvious relief as her eyes met Buffy’s.  


“I’ve got a Long Island iced tea for Bunny? Anyone named Bunny in here? Yay high, California blonde, perky boobs and a giant stick up her-“

“Faith!”

Chuckling, Faith made her way over and placed the drinks down on the bedside table. Leaning down, she pressed her lips against Buffy’s in a tender kiss. She tasted like coffee. The door made a soft click as Dawn left, and Buffy hummed against her lips then pulled back slowly.

“Hey B”.

“Hey”. 

Buffy’s throat felt tight all of a sudden. She doesn’t know what to say. Everything feels too much and not enough. Faith kisses her forehead and slides in under the covers. The brief shock of cold air as the duvet is pulled back is replaced quickly by a familiar warmth. Gathering her up, she shifts Buffy ever so gently to cuddle into her side, the blonde’s head flopping onto her chest. Buffy can feel the thudding of her heart against her ear, its jerky rhythm betraying Faith’s nonchalant demeanour. She laces their fingers together. Both of their knuckles are stained with dried blood and-

_Faith gasps as she pulls the knife out. It’s gleaming in the moonlight, dripping with red and Faith is staring through her, but she looks like she’s seeing Buffy for the first time. The knife is shaking in her grip, sharp and angular and wicked._

_“You did it”._

_They’re caught in that moment of shared disbelief. Everything is still except for the blood dripping off the blade; it falls like rain. Drip, drip, drip-_

“B?!”

Faith’s eyebrows are drawn together as she looks down on Buffy with concern. A greenish tinge circles her cheekbone, and Buffy reaches out to trace it with trembling fingers. She’s hurt. How had she not noticed that before? 

“B where’d you go just now? Talk to me”.

Buffy struggles to find an answer. She’s still shaking from the living nightmare – memory? If she closes her eyes she can hear the wind howling on that rooftop, feel the slick of blood on her hands. What’s happening to her? 

“I think I might be going mad”, she blurts out with a hysterical giggle.

And promptly vomits all over the bed.


End file.
